


um Nächte, nur um Eine

by SeeCee



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeCee/pseuds/SeeCee
Summary: Edmund gets kidnapped. Peter gets angry.Very angry.





	um Nächte, nur um Eine

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Rainer Maria Rilke's 'Alkestis'

The alarm's been going for a while now. The valorous caterwauling of the anticipating soldiers morphed into headless rushing interspersed with frightful yells but are mostly drowned out by the rigorous roars of their enemies and the thunderous rataplan of beasts tamed only for battle.

The three guards, who have spend all evening taunting him with food he's starving for and threatening him with acts they would never be foolish enough to attempt, have grown quiet. Cowardly. Their brothers and friends are being slaughtered while they hide behind their order of watching a single prisoner. A prisoner, who is weakened and injured but solemn. Waiting.

He has waited for three weeks. Suffered humiliation, abuse, and the fear of rendering his magnificent brother vulnerable.

Sharaz had him brought before his dais today, in tatters and racks that clung to his shoulders and barely covered his naked crotch, to tell him that the High King of Narnia had accepted an invitation to negotiate for a release. That he had assented to coming alone. That Sharaz had powerful friends in Calormen, versed in the arts of practical herbology. He had smirked dirty and lecherous and Edmund understood. Poison.

 

The ruckus from the courtyard suggested ill success with that particular plan but Edmund knows what a cunning strategist the gentle Queen is, what an accomplished general the valiant one. There is no guarantee that his brother is even present, let alone alive.

So he remains seating. And waiting. For relieved happiness or wailing heartbreak.

 

His guards have been sticking their heads together for a while now. But Edmund stopped paying them any heed hours ago.

Then there's an eruption of triumphant yelling, shields and weapons smashing together in jubilation. Defeat. Yet whose?

Edmund swallows.

The door atop the dungeon stairs flings open violently. The guards spring apart, unsheath their lances and clubs. The person walks down leisurely, a sword in hand but not poised for attack. Then Edmund recognizes him.

Asher.

Feeling his heart skip, he gets up. The movement is registered and Asher turns to the men, shaking in their boots. He swings his sword forward, aiming at their throats.

“Surrender or death.“

One of them is reckless enough to look indignant, gripping his spear tighter.

“A soldier of the royal guard never surrenders!” he proclaims and storms ahead.

Seconds later Asher's sword protrudes crimson out of his back. The other two fall to their knees, their weapons drop twanging to the ground.

“No survivors, Asher,” a new voice commands, descending the stairs.

Edmund rushes towards the bars of his cell. Peter, not even dressed in proper armour but a fortified version of his hunting clothes, arrives, manhandling a gagged and beaten Sharaz. He meets his brother's eyes and Edmund is chilled all the way to the never-diminishing heat of his core.

The soldiers have barely time for a last plea of mercy before Asher finishes them off. Sharaz watches that wide-eyed and unmistakably terrified.

The brothers don't address each other and there are no sounds except Sharaz' pathetic whimperings and Asher searching the corpses for the cell keys.

Asher, the High King's squire. A man as young as Peter himself and as quiet as he is loyal. His roots, before he divested himself of them entirely, were telmarine. Now he is entirely Narnian and untamed like the rest.

Edmund steps back as the gate opens, his eyes never leaving Peter's grave face. Then Sharaz is forced to his knees, the gag ripped away and Asher holds his own sword out to Edmund.

“Please, your majesties, I beg you! You must spare me, I never-”

With a harsh yank to his hair Peter tilts Sharaz' head back, exposing his neck. Edmund takes the sword.

Tears run down the cheeks of this once so prideful King.

“He has to suffer justice, brother,” Peter demands. “He took from me which I hold dearest in the world.”

“Please,” cries King Sharaz, blood caked to his beard and eyes full of terror.

Edmund hews his head right off. Blood spurts for a moment, then the lifeless body keels over, hits the ground with a thump.

Before he's even fully lowered the weapon, Peter is on him. Bunches the racks in his fists and walks Edmund back into his cell until his body connects hard with the cold bricks.

“How often must I tell you?” Peter threatens. “When will you finally learn to do as you're told?”

“Peter, I-”

But the words are lost when the High King crushes their mouths together. It's a harsh kiss with sharp teeth and a demanding tongue. Edmund splays his hands against Peter's chest, moves and moans against him. Anything to help alleviate the distress and fear, to show him he's fine, he's alright, to assure him they're back together again.

And Peter's violent kisses do calm, his tongue relinquishing its invasion of Edmund's mouth. His balled fists relax into caresses over his shoulders and his back. But then they reach the hem of his racks and, questing beneath, find him bare.

Peter escapes a growl, fingers clawing into Edmund's ass possessively. Appeasingly, Ed lets his own hands wander up to Peter's neck, to ground and reassure him. His kisses travel to the corner of his mouth, along his cheekbone, and, tilting his head a bit lower, to the underside of his eye. Peter lets him and then their gazes meet.

His brother still looks stormy, withheld violence pulsing through his veins. A dry finger grazes Edmund's hole and he understands what it is that Peter needs. Only Edmund doesn't see a way to ease that passage. Besides, he is starved, weakened, and hurting, craves food and water and downy-feathered pillows. Peter pushes a leg between Edmund's thighs decisively, his eyes allowing no escape. And anyway, Ed doesn't feel in the position to deny him.

So, he forces himself to relax in his brother's hands and lowers his head demurely, accepting. Peter presses a soft kiss to his forehead. Then one hand disappears from Edmund's bum and he watches his brother procure a small tube from his pocket. It's polishing fat they use for their horses' tack. Hardly ideal but it's a small mercy. Peter holds it out to him, expecting his little brother to open it and become provably complicit.

With a shaky breath Edmund lets go of Peter to unscrew the lid. His hands tremble. Wasting no time, Peter plunges two fingers into the thick paste and vanquishes the space between them. He crowds Edmund in completely, forcing him to hoist a leg up over Peter's waist so he gets the access he wants. Distinctly, he hears the fat being rubbed between fingers. Not to warm it, necessarily, but so it'll be more yielding.

Edmund throws his arms over Peter's shoulders for purchase, for some sort of steadying. His hands are still full of the tube and its lid respectively. Pressed to his High King like this, Edmund also gets a renewed glimpse at Asher.

He never leaves Peter's side if he can help it but at least he has his back resolutely positioned against this debauchment. He's witnessed this often enough, though. Sometimes, Ed wonders, if he's never curious? Can he really block out all these shameful, embarrassing noises? Does he respect Peter less for his perversions? Does he look down at Edmund for allowing them? No one knows how close the High King and his little brother truly are. No one, except this quiet, looming presence that is Asher.

Being done with spreading the fat over and around his hole, Peter unexpectedly pushes his fingers in. Just the two. He rotates them around as is possible, scissors and pumps them in and out too shortly for a proper preparation. Edmund's breathing picks up. He's not aroused but he's not afraid, either. This sort of pain he's experienced so often now, he's quite accustomed to it. Learned to cherish its connection to pleasure and unfathomable intimacy.

Pain. And loving Peter. That goes hand in hand.

“Free me,” his brother says. As much as it is a soft murmur into Edmund's ear, it's also an order.

Edmund complies. His sweaty hands let the tube tumble down into the dirty hay that served as his bed in the last three weeks. Peter strains his upper body back so Edmund has the space to open the breeches and pull him out. Like everything else about him – his sense of duty, the responsibility he shoulders, the muscles in his arms and legs, even his ego at times – Peter is intimidatingly massive here, too. So hard, as well.

In an urge of placation Edmund jerks him off appreciatively, works his other hand inside the warm pants to fondle his balls. He thumbs the slit then and guides the rewarding drop of precum to his mouth. It always feels filthy to do that. But Peter's gaze is all fire as he watches him swallow.

In the next instant, he grabs Edmund's wrists, forcing him to abruptly release his balls, and bangs them against the bricks. His chest crashes to Edmund's as he devours his mouth again, his unyielding length rubbing up his waist and along his stomach.

A flicker of hope, that his brother may reach his satisfaction like this already, lets Edmund glide his leg back to the floor. Yet, this kind of half-hearted compromise is not in Peter's nature. He has to have it all.

Feeling Edmund's leg disappear from its designated spot, Peter immediately releases his wrists and grabs him mercilessly just beneath his ass, burying his hands in the giving flesh of his thighs. He moves his pelvis forward so that Edmund has no other choice; lets Peter hoist him up completely.

Holding onto him with arms around his neck and and legs tightening around his waist, it feels like Edmund is the one to pull Peter closer, as if he were the one forcing this encounter.

Then there's the nudge of the crown of Peter's cock against his barely loosened opening. Edmund bites his lip and braces himself.

The breach burns and Peter still uses his grip to pull him wider apart, despite the fact that Ed already feels like he's being split open. A long, stifled whine builds in his throat because he refuses to actually let anything come out of his mouth. Peter's begun thrusting in tiny motions, working himself firmly, tirelessly in. An occasional grunt accompanying it. But it's his harsh breathing, hitting Ed's shoulder and sounding so indecently low and telling in his ear that Edmund really embarrasses. How can Asher just stand there and not even incline his head.

With a sudden give, Peter is all at once inside him. Causing a high-pitched yelp to startle out, as well as a furtive scrabble in order to cling tighter to him. Penetrating him so deep and enormous, his brother decides to take a breather. Edmund doesn't think to turn his head and offer his lips, he's too concentrated on breathing and not involuntarily clenching. Then one blazingly hot and sweaty palm leaves his flesh to be planted against the brick wall instead. The other follows.

Bereft of his main physical support, Edmund locks his ankles over one another, readjusts his position by starting his movements at the knees. Peter lets out a cut off moan. No wonder, since Ed squeezed him like that after all. Then his brother takes a step forwards, pressing Edmund's back from shoulders to butt against the cold wall, and widens his stance. He fucks upwards.

Just one thrust but harsh and hurting. The pained grunt from Edmund testament enough. He does it again. And again. It's like a sucker punch every time. A whip cracking over already breaking skin.

If only Edmund knew if this was punishment or Peter granting forgiveness. At least then he could more purposefully reciprocate. Like this he just keeps clenching whenever Peter pulls the tiniest bit out, then balls his fists white-knuckled and steels himself again. The whole time trying to keep breathing but he barely manages to get air in before his lungs fire it out again, shaky and broken. The pain and the exertion cause more sweat, which means he keeps slipping, too. The muscles in his thighs and arms tiring from the constant trial of hanging on and repositioning.

Edmund is just about to beg him to stop when instead the opposite happens and Peter's singular thrusts transform into a battering of them, so quick and savage, their flesh smacking together obscenely, Edmund can barely catch air at all now. And he thinks it's just a momentary thing but Peter keeps at it, snapping his hips forcefully, his face hidden from view.

Edmund gets rattled and used, his ankles skid apart, he can barely hold on anymore, his back and especially his bare ass, which brush unprotected against the wall, chafe and scrape his skin painfully. Peter's accelerated breathing is so brutish and his grunts so selfish and it already starts to seem like this will never end when Edmund just can't take it anymore and has the presence of mind to claw a hand into Peter's hair and _yank._

The thrusts don't stop but they get gradually slower, no less piercing though. Peter is not that generous. He allows however that Edmund guides their faces far enough apart that they can meet each other's assessing gaze. Using this moment to get his breathing back under control, Edmund hefts Peter with an uncompromising stare.

Peter's hips and those thrusts keep moving but the degree of intensity lessens. He continues them because he can't not, even if he wanted, even if Edmund cried and begged. Fortunately, Ed has no intention to do either. Still, his hand is securely gripping Peter's hair, his eyes attesting for the sincerity to his following words.

“You're hurting me.”

There's a flicker of realization in his pupils, which doesn't surprise Edmund in the slightest. Peter has an uncomely tendency to lose himself during these moments.

Their relationship wouldn't be what it is, if it hadn't happened so unforeseeably severe the first time. Peter's wide-eyed stare, his remorseful statements. _He didn't mean to. This shouldn't have happened. Can Edmund forgive him, he had no idea how-_ And then, even more gravely afflicted, _Please, could he do it again?_

In all these years, Edmund has never said _No_ once.

 

In this moment now, Peter's hips still unexpectedly. His mouth opens and for a second there doesn't seem anything willing to come out. Then, “Edmund,” he calls.

And it's a call Edmund answers unreluctantly. He surges forward to kiss him. On his part, Peter's arm comes back to lay under and support Ed's ass, the other hugging his back so it'll be shielded from the effects of the cutting bricks. Being held up again, Edmund dedicates himself entirely to appreciating his brother's soft lips and warm mouth. Peter resumes his thrusts, gentler and more considering. The pace increases momentarily, then his strong arms strengthen, his mouth escapes Edmund's and releases finishing groans. Edmund, feeling him come deep and hot inside, plasters his brother's eyelids and brows and cheeks with kisses the whole time.

 

Once Peter pulls out and lets him down, Edmund feels distinctly how the fat and semen squelch between his cheeks. He says nothing. Then his brother gives him a last quick, possessive peck. One hand bunched in the tatters, he looks contemplating at it. Edmund, on the other hand, pulls an inquisitive brow. It shouldn't surprise him when Peter suddenly yanks and the racks are ripped from his body. Still, it startles him enough that his hands fly up automatically, trying to cover himself. But Peter catches his wrist and an eyeful. Edmund is mottled with bruises and cuts. Peter takes a deliberate inhale, his grip momentarily painful. He must desire to kill Sharaz all over again. A hundred times for each mar on his beloved's skin.

Edmund hasn't noticed Asher look but all the same he moved to divest the former telmarine King of his ruined robes. With a hand on his elbow Peter leads Edmund out of the cell, then takes the proffered garment from his squire and personally bundles Ed up in it. The whole time Edmund feels seed trickle down the inside of his thigh.

 

A bunch of it squirts out when, among the triumphantly cheering Narnians, Oreius steps forward, bows, and Edmund helps him up so they can clasp hands as equals.

He feels the cloth sticking to it when Peter, unseen, prods him there exactly for one reason: to reassure himself of the evidence of his ownership over Edmund. Impossible for him to actually feel it through the rich material, fit for a King after all, he has to trust the miniscule squirm Edmund can't suppress.

“Rest, brother,” he declares and for all their subjects that act is nothing more but the High King putting a guiding hand on his tired but grateful younger brother.

Edmund plays along. Follows a faun, who brings him to the royal tent, and doesn't ask why Peter stays behind, what else he will do tonight. Frankly, he does not care.

Water and food is readied for him quickly, as well as several candles being lighted. He eats sparsely, then lies down, falls fast asleep.

 

It's no more than a few hours later when the tent flap is disturbed and Peter strides in. The glimpse Ed catches from the outside tells him of a night sky, illuminated by bonfires and accompanied by songs and laughter of celebrating soldiers.

Peter undresses. Edmund watches.

Naked, his brother fills fresh water from a pitcher into a washing bowl. He cleans himself meticulously, not with gusto. Splashes his face, scrubs his armpits and crotch, finishes with his hands. His big, calloused, war-roughened, thick-fingered hands, that have done unspeakable things to Edmund. That will do even worse.

Unperturbed, he dries himself just as methodically. Then he looks at Edmund, their eyes meeting. He throws the towel behind him, advances.

Edmund doesn't help and doesn't hinder when Peter sits down at the edge and folds the covers back, laying his brother's body bare. His sober gaze strips him down even further. Which isn't technically possible, he's already naked, the robe from earlier removed, brought away, possibly burned.

He does not know how to ask for forgiveness. Peter touches him.

“Will the Tisroc retaliate?”

He feels Peter's grazing fingertips acutely, goosebumps awakening in their path.

“He won't dare,” Peter says absent-mindedly. “Not after tonight.”

_No survivors, Asher._ Edmund wonders if Narnia's High King burned the castle down, too.

Peter lightly scratches at a scab by Edmund's navel. His expression darkens, realizing what a sharp object would have been needed to create it. At the same time Edmund realizes that asking after the standing of the castle would be a stupid question indeed.

“Will we take Telmar?”

Peter's hand wanders on, going lightly through the coarse hair at the base of Edmund's flaccid dick, then along a purple and seablue bruise on his thigh and down to the abrasion of his knee.

“There's a younger brother. Caspian. The first of his name. He shall have it.”

Peter reaches the sole of his feet and Edmund has quite enough of this brooding.

“This better not come back to bite you in the ass.”

A small smile appears upon his brother's face. He releases Edmund's toes.

“If he isn't a nuisance or an idiot, he may sire one.”

“Or is gifted exceptionally daft grandchildren?”

“I shall hope never to find out.”

“You expect to die young?”

“I trust Aslan to take me when the time is right.”

“You would leave me?” Edmund asks, staring up into Peter's face, who is occupied with aligning Ed's hair strands. “Willingly?”

“Willingly, no. Although you yourself have proven that such actions are something you are evidently unbothered to commit yourself.”

“I didn't leave you.”

“Then why have I killed so many people today?”

They regard each other closely for a moment. Eventually Edmund reaches out, tangles his own fingers in Peter's hair.

“Grant me a kiss, brother,” he pleads. “Quick.”

Peter smirks as he leans down. Yet stops mere millimetres from his desired destination. Edmund increases the pressure from his hand. No budging. Oh how insufferably typical. He cranes his neck up and takes the kiss he wished to have been given.

“Those renegades didn't even know who it was they had captured. I would have escaped in the night. It was dumb luck that a group of royal soldiers crossed their path and recognized me.”

Seemingly, Peter contemplates this. But Edmund knows all of his placatory gestures.

“I had forbidden you from riding through Telmar. You disobeyed.”

“The path over the sea is too unpredictable this time of year. Our friends needed me now.”

“You stole away like a thief. Told no one, took no reinforcements with you.”

“I knew I could do it.”

“You were foolish and irresponsible.”

“I saved our friends and you now ensured that Telmar is no longer a threat to us.”

“I could have lost you.”

The mix of raw distress and thinly-veiled despair in this one utterance, shocks Edmund more than he can say.

“You didn't.”

“But you are hurt and they could have- they could have taken you from me.”

“I am here, I am fine,” Edmund insists, cupping his brother's face and kissing it everywhere. “We're together.”

“You were gone.”

“Forgive me. Peter, my Peter, forgive me.”

There aren't tears exactly but it's a close thing so it doesn't surprise Edmund when Peter holds his face, too, kisses him fervently and then rushes, “Ed, can I- again?”

There's not a moment's pause before Edmund opens his legs, pulling him on top and muttering incessantly, “Yes. Yes, yes, _yes._ ”

 

Having Peter's warmth cover him is more sensual, more essential than he is capable of wording. But being the recipient of his brother's kisses and being allowed to hold him close is the only absolution Ed has ever known. Not a thing in the world can touch him when they are like this. There's only Peter's heat. His hunger.

Edmund feels the silky smoothness of an erection against his thigh, so he angles his leg up. Peter's hand is immediately on him, pushing it even higher and placing it over his hip, letting his hip roll forward and into him. Although, Ed's limbs are still tired, this couldn't possibly leave him unaffected and with the next few repetitions Peter slides his hardness against a matching one. Edmund groans softly every time. While Peter latches his mouth to his brother's jaw, his hand moves to finger his hole. He can't help the hiss. Peter's tongue stops.

“It's alright,” Edmund reassures. “I like it.”

“I should have been more careful.”

Lightly, Ed strokes over his shoulder blades.

“Be so now,” he says and presses his pelvis upwards.

Peter kisses the shell of his ear, licks and sucks at the lobe. It is quite maddening, especially since the finger at his tender rim retreated again. But it is only temporary. With a last peck to the corner of his flushed mouth, Peter leans over to the bedside table. Inside he recovers a vial of Ed's preferred oil.

This time he does not need to be coaxed, takes it from his brother and unstoppers it. The expression he receives is nothing but pleased. Then Peter stems himself on his elbows so he can lever fully off of Edmund and grant him the space to work.

He pours the liquid on his fingers, some trickling down onto his chest, and then spreads his legs wide. He works himself open quickly yet pleasurably, just how he enjoys it. Puffs of desire lace his voice, his cheeks flushing. Peter leans down to nibble at his lips, kisses them terribly red. He just can't let him be.

Edmund adds some more oil onto his fingers, then props one leg anew over Peter's waist to guide him down so Ed can grasp them both, make them slick and panting with lust. Peter takes the vial and returns it to the wooden surface before lowering himself completely, taking Edmund into his arms and moving them onto their sides. His arms must be slowly giving out.

Edmund frees his own hands from between their sweltering bodies, wipes them on the sheets and his brother's back before tangling them again into the blond mane and reciprocating Peter's feverish kisses and demandingly inquisitive tongue with abandon. But he keeps rutting forward, too, with incrementally little humps.

Finally, Peter's hands move down to grab fistfuls of his plump ass, pulls him apart and open. His slick cock rubs a few times along his crack, then catches on. Edmund mewls and Peter pushes in.

Both of them let out such liberating surges of air, clinging and pressing to each other tightly. Edmund bears down, while Peter fucks up and like that they're quickly fully connected. But while Peter then stills and takes a moment to savour, Edmund's shuddering ribcage and beating heart are solely a symptom of how much more he already needs. So he keeps thrusting as their position and the limited space allows, planting encouraging, devoted kisses to his brother's face. Peter answers this behaviour with a lazy smile, his hands releasing Ed's pert cheeks and stroke along his spine instead.

“I've got you,” he murmurs and suddenly his arms tighten their embrace, rendering Edmund immovable and finally he starts to actually fuck his little brother.

And yes, Peter got him. In all the vital and all the unbearable ways, Edmund belongs to him. But it could be worse, he muses as Peter really gives it to him and the aching soreness of his hole grows to overshadow any pleasure.

Peter could have been a good man. Or a righteous one. He could never have corrupted his little brother. Edmund could never have learned the taste of his brother's mouth. Of his seed. Edmund could never have known this.

He feels the sharpness of Peter's fingernails as all his muscles coil in orgasm. It hurts him unspeakably. But then Peter is present enough to work a hand between them and destroys Edmund like this, as well.

It could be worse, he thinks, letting Peter kiss his tears away. Edmund could never have known love. But he does.

 

Fin.


End file.
